


Welcome to the Grave

by sarahandthegraveyardshift



Series: Motel Hell Chronicles [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Buried Alive, M/M, OC deaths, Panic Attack, mention of oc bipolar disorder, mention of oc depression, mention of oc suicide attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:35:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27742372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahandthegraveyardshift/pseuds/sarahandthegraveyardshift
Summary: Hot tears spill from his eyes, and he covers his face and cries as the reality of his situation settles in—he's been buried alive. Maybe if he presses his fingers into his eyelids hard enough, the stars behind them will be real, and he'll find himself under a wide, beautiful sky beside his mate.“Peter,” he whispers, begs, pleads. “Peter, help me...”[The cemetery.]
Relationships: Chris Argent/Derek Hale, Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Motel Hell Chronicles [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1742245
Comments: 15
Kudos: 220





	1. I Will Have Vengeance

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my goodness, hello! I am so very glad to see you! My friend, you look simply stunning. You are so freaking beautiful, just look at you! Thank you, Thank you, Thank you for being here!
> 
> I am so happy to keep this series going. This part, especially, has been a wild ride, and I've been doing my very best to keep at it, despite the silly brick in my head that I call a brain. 
> 
> Enjoy, my loves!!!

“Emissary Stilinski?”

Stiles's attention snaps back to his surroundings, and he has to resist the urge to frown in disappointment. He was having an awesome daydream about Peter sucking him off while finger-fucking him relentlessly. 

“Hm?” he asks, glancing around the table fleetingly. Derek sighs beside him, gaze unwavering from the two women sitting opposite them—Alpha Martina Ramirez and her emissary, Rosa Delgado. 

The Alpha's eyes are sharp, calculating. Her face is stony, and a permanent frown makes the lines around her mouth stand out. Rosa just looks sad. Defeated. She seems about as invested in this meeting as Stiles.

“Are we boring you, Emissary Stilinski?” Alpha Ramirez asks, her words clipped and her jaw flexing as she grinds her teeth. 

“A little, yeah,” Stiles says nonchalantly. Derek grunts but again doesn't say anything. 

Ramirez growls, baring her teeth. “It seems your emissary could use a lesson in manners, Alpha Hale.” Beside her, Rosa flinches and sinks into her seat. “Perhaps rumors of your complacency ring true. We did not invite you onto our territory to be disrespected.”

“No,” Stiles says, leaning forward onto the table and staring the Alpha down, “you didn't. You 'invited' us here because your emissary—” Stiles indicates the young woman sitting across from him. “—fucked up by trying to bring her dead girlfriend back to life, and now your cemetery is swarmed with _Walking Dead_ rejects.” Rosa closes her eyes and shakes in her chair. Stiles almost wants to feel bad for her. Almost. “Now, I'm no expert, but I'm pretty sure the dead should stay buried.”

Ramirez flares her nostrils as her anger rises. “Hypocritical of you to say such things, considering one of your own pack members returned from the grave.”

Stiles smirks and licks his bottom lip. “He's very...persistent.”

Alpha Ramirez settles a glare on Derek. “You allow your emissary to speak in such a way?”

Stiles sits back in his chair as Derek leans forward. “I don't _allow_ him to do anything, Alpha Ramirez. My emissary is capable of speaking for himself.” He eyes the younger woman across the table. “As should all.” With a heated gaze, he draws himself up—Alpha of the Beacon Hills pack, heir of Talia Hale, protector of the Nemeton and the land it breathes life into. “If you don't trust your emissary enough to consult them on pack matters, to keep the bonds between your packmates strong and undivided, then you clearly don't acknowledge the purpose and potential they have.”

Alpha Ramirez looks dumbstruck, her lips pressing together tightly and stressing the lines on her face. She takes a breath to speak, but Derek cuts her off. “We will assist you with your problem—we're not in the habit of abandoning those in need.” His eyes flash, and the older woman has the decency to wince. “But I would suggest thinking carefully before calling on the Hale pack again.”

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles bites the inside of his cheek, eyebrows furrowed as he stares un-seeing out the front windshield of Derek's Camaro from the passenger seat. He'd be surprised that the thing still runs after so long, but he's poured enough magic into it to keep it going for the next century.

“Sorry,” he says absently into the quiet. “I might have stepped out of line a little.”

Derek sighs, fingers unclenching from the steering wheel. “You did,” he says bluntly, and Stiles snorts in amusement. “But Ramirez has always been a pain in the ass.” The Alpha's shoulders relax, and he purses his lips pensively. “She hated my mother.”

“She seems like the spiteful type.” Stiles hums in thought. “What made her hate your mom so much?”

“Power,” Derek replies. He shifts in the drivers seat and checks the rearview mirror. “Money. Pack.” He sighs heavily again. “Ramirez wanted to join our packs with an arranged marriage.”

“Because those always work out so well.” Stiles focuses on Derek's words for a moment, something in his brain clicking into place as he takes himself off autopilot—sometimes he needs that, the lack of thought process, to keep himself sane. “Who was the arrangement for?”

Derek glances at the younger man out of the corner of his eye. “Ramirez wanted to marry Peter.”

Stiles is quiet for several moments before he huffs in incredulity. “No wonder she hates my guts.”

“She isn't a fan of emissaries in general,” Derek explains, one corner of his mouth quirking, “but, yes, she does seem to have a particular grudge against you.” The werewolf's nostrils flare, and he wrinkles his nose. “Maybe if you didn't show up to formal meetings smelling like Peter and sex.”

“I showered,” Stiles murmurs.

Derek snorts. “It doesn't help much if Peter is in the shower with you.”

Stiles goes quiet again, checking his phone for messages. He'd turned it off during the meeting—too much past experience with sexting told him it was a bad idea to keep it on. When he finds not a single message, he frowns. It's possible Peter has been busy with work-related things. Just about the only time he can get any work done is when Stiles isn't there. Or perhaps he went to meet with members of the Ramirez pack. He is still on good terms with most of them.

“Is something wrong?” Derek asks, making the young emissary startle.

“I'm not sure,” Stiles says, reaching out with his magic and searching for Peter. “Something just feels...off.”

Derek grunts. “We'll be at the cemetery soon. Chris and Peter should be there by now.”

Stiles nods, but the twisting in his stomach gets worse the closer they get to their destination. “Can you hurry?”

Derek steps on the gas. 

0 o 0 o 0

The unease in Stiles's stomach tightens when they arrive at the cemetery to find Chris, and only Chris, leaning against his SUV waiting for them. The young man's gaze sweeps the area quickly, his magic reaching out to search for his mate.

“He's close by,” Derek says before Stiles can work himself up, putting the car in park and shutting it off. “Probably checking the cemetery's perimeter.”

Stiles nods and steps out of the car but doesn't relax until Peter appears from a nearby treeline. The air caught in his lungs shudders from him in a relieved gust, and Peter's gaze finds him automatically. The pinching of his eyebrows and the frown on his face betray his concern, but Stiles gives a quick, discrete shake of his head, and the older man holds his tongue.

The four men approach one another, meeting halfway between the parked cars just outside the cemetery. Beyond the gates, more than a hundred figures stand stock-still in the dark. The lack of noise makes Stiles's skin crawl—not even the sound of bugs or birds echoes from this place.

“How did it go?” Chris asks, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets as he stops a few feet from the Alpha. He looks like he wants to step closer, like he's attempting to seem casual in his distance.

“As well as can be expected,” Derek grumbles, giving Stiles a withering look.

A shiver runs up the young spark's spine as Peter slides his hand along his lower back comfortingly. “Ramirez is a piece of work.”

The older werewolf huffs in laughter, pressing his lips to Stiles's temple before murmuring, “She's a piece of _something_.”

Derek grunts and runs a hand over his face tiredly. “The sooner we take care of this, the sooner we can go home.” He turns towards the cemetery and glares past its gates. “Stiles, do you have any ideas on how to reverse whatever Rosa did?”

The younger man follows Derek's gaze, studying the large area with a frown. “A few, maybe. I'll have to get closer to know what kind of magic she used specifically.”

“Closer?” Peter asks warily, tensing as Stiles steps out of his hold and starts towards the gate. He enters the cemetery like he's been there a thousand times before, and Peter follows close behind him, almost pressed to his back.

“Stiles,” Derek calls warningly as a few of the undead turn to stare at them.

The spark doesn't stop or even hesitate in his stride. “It's fine, Derek. They're harmless,” he replies quietly, stepping around the reanimated corpses as if they're statues.

“How do you know they're harmless?” Peter breathes, a hand curling around Stiles's side protectively as they gain more and more attention.

Chris and Derek's footsteps fall in behind them as they catch up.

“If their higher brain functions were still intact, they would have broken out of the cemetery the second they clawed out of their graves,” Stiles explains, stepping around a large hole. “And if they were dangerous, they'd be trying to eat us right now.”

“And you knew this before you came in here, right?” Derek asks skeptically, side-stepping a corpse that's missing its lower half.

“I had a hunch.”

“Stiles,” Peter growls in admonishment, his hand tightening at the younger man's side.

“I had a _feeling_ ,” Stiles corrects himself, slowing his pace as they approach a grave surrounded by a patch of dead grass. “They don't feel dangerous to me.”

“How do they feel to you?” Chris asks, fingers unclenching from the shotgun in his hands.

Stiles stops just outside the dead patch, looking around carefully as he speaks. His tone is distant and quiet. “Empty. Like husks. Like there's power in the engine but no one at the wheel.”

_Like me._

He finds who he's looking for quickly and points towards a corpse standing nearby, one that used to be a young woman. “There. That's Gabriela Cortez.” He turns to the other three men. “Rosa Delgado's girlfriend.”

None of them ask if he's sure, which Stiles appreciates. 

He'd gone through enough photographs of Gabby and Rosa to paint a picture of their seemingly happy life together before tragedy struck. Gabby had been human, diagnosed with major depression and bipolar disorder when she was sixteen. Medication had helped for a while, but things had been getting bad. Gabby tried to kill herself, ending up in a mental health facility for several months. 

Rosa admitted to pressuring her girlfriend to take the bite, that it would make the depression go away, make her _better_. Stiles can't say either way whether that's true or not. Depression isn't like cancer or a physical wound. Lycanthropy has the power to heal a great many things, but mental illness hasn't been proven to be one.

“Stay here,” Stiles says, starting towards the woman as he points towards the deadened grass. “Don't step on that.” As he approaches her, she turns to him, glass eyes white and glazed. Besides the smeared makeup revealing bloodless skin, she looks almost normal. She's only been in the ground for a couple of weeks. Stiles smiles and takes her hand, whispering, “Come with me, Gabby.” It's unnecessary. She can't understand him. But it makes him feel better, giving her the respect she deserves, even in death.

He guides her towards the patch of grass—her grave. She doesn't have a headstone yet, just a plastic placard stating who she is...Who she _was_. With a deep breath, he steps onto the grass, closing his eyes as he wavers. The ripples of pure magic that crash into him make his stomach turn, his head spin. He has to fight just to stay on his feet.

“Stiles?” Peter calls, stepping forward, but the younger man waves him off.

“Don't,” he cautions with a shake of his head. “I'm fine. Stay back.” He breathes heavily as a tightness wraps around his chest, turning to Gabby and pulling her towards him until she follows him onto the deadened grass. With a sharp gust of air that brushes through the young woman's dark, tangled locks, her ghostly pallor suddenly brightens. Life leaks into her and clings to her skin like it never left.

Gabby gasps, brown eyes swiveling as she searches her surroundings in confusion.

“Gabby?” Stiles asks softly, and her dark gaze centers on him.

She studies his face, frowning as her eyebrows draw together. “Do I know you?”

Stiles smiles, shaking his head and drawing in a labored breath. “No, you don't know me. But I know Rosa.”

Recognition alights in the woman's eyes, and she grasps Stiles's hands tightly. “Rosa? Is she here?” She looks around desperately, skeptic gaze landing on the men standing at the edge of the deadened patch. “Who are they? Where's Rosa?”

“She's with her pack,” Stiles explains. “She's safe, I promise.”

Gabby searches his eyes. “I need to see her.”

Stiles sighs and squeezes the hands in his. “Gabby, do you remember what happened? Why you're here?”

Gabby looks around again, frowning as she recognizes the cemetery. “No, I...” She shakes her head in frustration, tears beading on her eyelashes. “I don't remember. I don't—” Her gaze drops to the placard at their feet, and her breathing stops.

Stiles watches as painful memories flash behind the young woman's eyes, as recognition and terror dawn on her face. “You didn't survive the bite,” he says quietly. “Rosa did everything she could to save you. She even tried bringing you back.”

Gabby looks down at her hands, flexes her fingers in Stiles's hold. “But she did. Look, I'm...I'm alive. I'm not dead.” Desperation colors her words, like she's trying to convince herself of something that isn't true.

“Gabby,” Stiles says, waiting until the young woman meets his steady gaze. “You're not alive.” Gabby's bottom lip trembles. She takes a breath to argue, but Stiles only shakes his head. “Rosa thought she was giving you life. But what she really did was give life to a _place_ ,” he nods towards the ground, towards the dead grass they're standing on. “She made a pocket, a space for the dead to reanimate.” 

Gabby shakes her head angrily, loosing tears down her face. “I don't understand.”

“If you step out of this circle, you'll be just like them.” Stiles indicates the corpses standing motionless around them. “The only place you will ever be like this is right here. On your grave.” The young spark sighs sadly. “And I know it feels like you're alive. I know it feels like you could walk out of here and begin your life all over again. But it's not real.”

A sob tears its way out of Gabby's throat, and she grabs Stiles's hand, smashing it against her chest just over her heart, where a steady beat pounds beneath her ribcage. “How can you say I'm not alive?” she demands, screams, cries. “How can you say I'm not real?”

Stiles, his face absent of emotion, stares at the hand on Gabby's chest. “Belief is very powerful,” he says slowly, pulling his hand away and letting it dangle at his side, “but it can't bring the ones we love back without consequences.” He waves a hand outward, motioning towards the corpses surrounding them. “Look at these people, Gabby. They can't rest because of what Rosa did. And they won't rest unless I reverse the spell she placed here.”

Gabby trembles as she looks out at the undead, all of them facing towards her and Stiles. She covers her mouth and cries, doubling over in despair before falling to her knees. Stiles lowers himself to the ground as well, failing to hide a grunt of exhaustion.

“You'll...You'll tell Rosa I love her?” The young woman sits back on her legs, taking great gulps of air between sobs. “I love her so much.”

Stiles nods. “I'll tell her.”

Another moment passes, and when Gabriela's cries simmer to wet hiccoughs, she nods. “What do I have to do?”

“Close your eyes,” Stiles instructs, smiling kindly at her. “Think of Rosa.”

Gabby's eyelids fall shut, and her shoulders drop with ease. The corners of her lips turn upwards slightly. “I can see her face.”

“Good,” Stiles whispers. His fingers twist with a complicated motion, and a dagger appears in his hand. “That's good, Gabby.” He raises the dagger and brings the blade down into Gabriela's heart.

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles tugs on the silk tie keeping his wrists tethered to the headboard of the hotel bed, arching his back and whining as Peter finger-fucks him slow and deep. The older man works Stiles's cock with his mouth, gently bobbing his head and hollowing his cheeks. It keeps Stiles just on the brink of release, electrifies every nerve ending.

“Peter,” Stiles gasps, digging his heels into the mattress and pushing his hips up. 

Peter presses a hand to the spark's abdomen, keeping him in place as he slowly pulls off of his cock with a lewd, wet pop. “Yes, my love?” he asks breathlessly, licking and nipping at Stiles's trembling thighs as his talented fingers find the bundle of nerves inside the young man. He rubs against it relentlessly, watching Stiles writhe and arch and drop his head back to moan. 

“Thought about you today,” Stiles says, shifting his hips to coax Peter deeper. “Thought about this.”

“During your meeting with Ramirez?” Peter asks, kissing a trail up Stiles's stomach.

“Yes,” Stiles hisses, tugging particularly hard on the tie as the older man's tongue delves into his navel.

Peter hums and runs the tip of his nose along the sensitive skin under Stiles's ribcage. “I bet you smelled delicious.”

“Derek said I smelled like sex.” Stiles raises his head and looks down at the older man. His eyes are dark, his face flushed and his lips swollen from being bitten.

Peter stares for moments that feel like eternity, studying every rise and fall of Stiles's chest as he pants, watching his throat work as he swallows and moans. “Like I said.” He slides up Stiles's body, teasing the young man by hovering just out of reach for a kiss. “Delicious.”

“I need—” Stiles cuts off with a moan as Peter sucks a dark mark into his collarbone.

“What do you need, sweetheart?”

Stiles lifts his hips and gasps when Peter's fingers shift deeper. “I need you inside me.”

Peter chuckles. “You'll have to be more specific. Technically, I'm already inside you.” He illustrates his point by scissoring his fingers.

“I need you to fuck me.”

“Again,” Peter says, pulling his fingers out almost all the way and shoving them back into the young man, “going to need more specifics.”

Stiles, suddenly, sits up as far as the restraint will allow him, pressing into Peter's space and taking heaving gulps of air. “I need you to shove your cock in me and fuck me into this mattress so hard that I feel like I'm being split in two.” He gauges Peter's reaction before taking another breath. “Please, Peter. Please.”

The desperation in his voice must spark something beyond lust because Peter suddenly stops moving his fingers, making sure he has the younger man's attention. “Are you going to tell me what happened today? Why you were so upset after your meeting with Ramirez?”

Stiles groans in frustration, letting his head fall back. “It's nothing. My magic was acting weird.”

“How?”

“Peter—” 

“How was it acting weird?”

“I'll tell you!” Stiles says sharply, eyes prickling with unshed tears. “I'll tell you, just...” He whines as he squeezes around Peter's motionless fingers, circling his hips to create the friction his mate is denying him. “Just make me come. Please, Peter. I need to come.”

Peter doesn't hesitate in starting the thrusting of his fingers again, watching Stiles's mouth fall open as he adds a third and crooks them just right. “Talk to me, my love.”

Stiles's body moves to meet Peter's fingers hungrily. “It started when we got to town,” he pants, forcing the words between groans and pleas for more. “It felt like...I don't know, it just felt like something was wrong. My stomach— _fuck!_ —felt like it was in knots. I couldn't shake it.” Stiles arches his back with a particularly hard thrust of Peter's fingers. “It got w— _ah!_ —worse on the way back from the meeting.” The young spark closes his eyes and shakes his head, trying to swallow the sob at the back of his throat but releasing it in a mixture with a cry of pleasure. Hot tears fall down his face. “I couldn't...I couldn't...”

Peter brushes the younger man's sweaty bangs from his forehead, making soothing noises before asking, “You couldn't what?”

With a choked noise, Stiles turns his head towards his mate and stares, studies, memorizes. He knows too well the color of Peter's eyes, could pick their shade from a sea of blue. He drags in a shuddering, labored breath and leans into Peter's hand as the older man cups his face. “I couldn't feel you. I couldn't find you. It was like you'd disappeared, and I was being swallowed by darkness.” Stiles's eyes go wide with fear, and his bottom lip trembles as his throat tightens. “You were gone. And I was lost...I'm lost without you, Peter.”

Peter works his arm under the younger man, wrapping it around him and fitting them flush against one another, Peter's chest to Stiles's back. “I'm right here, Stiles,” he whispers, pistoning his fingers inside the young spark faster, deeper. “I'm here, I promise.” When he feels Stiles's body tighten, his choked pleas barely discernible through the guttural noises clawing their way from his throat, he presses his lips to the younger man's ear and demands, “Come for me.”

Stiles does, his body jerking in Peter's hold as the older man continues to thrust his fingers in and out of him. Only when Stiles slumps into a boneless, gasping mess does Peter stop, wiping his fingers on the sheets before reaching up and gently undoing the tie around Stiles's wrists. He checks them carefully, prods the reddened skin until he's satisfied no damage has been done—they won't bruise, and the redness should be gone by morning.

Once Stiles has had water from the water bottle on the hotel nightstand and his tears have carefully been wiped away, Peter settles himself again at his mate's back, holding him close and tight and safe. 

Always safe.

Stiles reaches behind him and strings his fingers through Peter's hair as the older man peppers his shoulder with kisses. “Derek told me about you and Ramirez. The arranged marriage.”

Peter nuzzles behind the young spark's ear, inhaling deeply. “Did he?”

Stiles stretches and hums with a sigh. “Did you want to?” 

“Marry Martina?”

“Yeah.”

The huff that Peter releases tickles Stiles's neck. “Certainly not. I was far too young to be thinking of marriage. Talia wouldn't hear of it.” He presses a smile into the young spark's skin. “And Ramirez has always been a bitch. If I was to marry, she would be the last person I would consider.”

A pause hangs in the air between them, Stiles's heartbeat skipping as his mind races. “But have you?” He turns only enough to be able to meet Peter's gaze. “Considered it?”

Peter searches the young man's eyes, chooses his words carefully. “Not until recently.”

The younger man's breath hitches. “I'd say yes.” He swallows and runs a finger down the side of Peter's face. “If you were to consider it.”

“Good to know.” Peter captures Stiles's lips and kisses him until he's whimpering and restless. “Do you still want me to 'split you in two'?”

Stiles shudders. “Are you sure Chris and Derek are a few floors below us?”

Peter settles between Stiles's legs, pressing his full weight into the young spark. “Quite sure.”

“Good.” Wrapping his arms around Peter's shoulders, Stiles whispers into the older man's ear, “I want them to hear us.”

Peter's teeth are sharp when he smiles.

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles dreams of a dark, depthless sky. He watches lightning crackle through the clouds, his stomach twisting as his surroundings reveal themselves. He's in the bottom of a grave, packed earth imprisoning him from all sides and freedom looming above, out of reach.

Rain falls on his face, into his eyes. He can't move, can barely see when a figure leans into his line of sight. They stroke his cheek with gentle fingers, whisper indiscernible words into his ear.

Something creaks and moans, and then the world is disappearing, shut away as a lid closes over him. There are several moments of quiet, filled only by the sound of his ragged breathing and raindrops pattering above him. The first loud _plop_ above him makes his heart race. The noise continues, over and over, becoming more muffled until he can barely hear it.

And then he can't hear anything...

Stiles jerks awake with a violent flail, his movements restricted and the air around him stale as he draws in gasp after gasp. His knees bang against something solid as he bends his legs, his bare feet meeting the same as he kicks out. Raising his hands, he desperately searches the space above him. His fingers slide over smooth wood. 

Stiles isn't dreaming. He's awake, and he's in a box. He's in a _fucking box_.

He presses his hands flat against the wood, forces himself to concentrate, to draw on his magic. The emptiness he feels when he tugs at his core, at the place that should be warm and rife with his spark, makes him tremble. He chokes, whimpers, sobs. His magic is _gone_.

“No,” he croaks, coughing as his hands ball into fists, and he bangs against the lid. “No, no, no.” Dirt falls from the cracks in the wood, and Stiles shouts in frustration and anger and fear. “Help! Someone help!”

He knows no one can hear him.

“Please!” 

Hot tears spill from his eyes, and he covers his face and cries as the reality of his situation settles in—he's been buried alive. Maybe if he presses his fingers into his eyelids hard enough, the stars behind them will be real, and he'll find himself under a wide, beautiful sky beside his mate.

“Peter,” he whispers, begs, _pleads_. “Peter, help me...”


	2. I Will Have Salvation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Believe_ , he tells himself, shivering as his fear quells some. Even if he doesn't have his magic now, he still has to believe. And if there is one thing, one _person_ , in this world that he has faith in more than anything, it's—
> 
> _Peter. I believe in Peter._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again! Hey again! Hello again! Oh my goodness, did you get more beautiful since the first chapter? You absolutely did, don't deny it. You look amazing! Stunning! Thank you for being here!
> 
> You are so lovely, and I hope you enjoy this part of the series! It didn't turn out exactly as I'd planned, but I am still ridiculously happy with it!
> 
> Enjoy, my loves!

Derek frowns at Stiles and Peter's hotel room door. He's called both men several times this morning, and neither have answered, which isn't altogether out of character for them—Jesus, they fuck like rabbits—but it's nearly check-out time, and the two usually emerge for a breather and some food by now.

Beside him, Chris hits the _end call_ button on his cellphone. “Still nothing,” he says quietly.

“I can't hear anything inside,” Derek replies.

“Maybe they got breakfast in town,” the hunter suggests. “Peter isn't a fan of hotel food.”

The Alpha bites the inside of his cheek. “Or Stiles put a silencing spell on the room.”

Chris studies Derek's face carefully. “You think something is wrong.”

“It could be nothing.”

“Your instincts are rarely wrong.”

“We could be bursting in on them having sex,”

Chris shrugs. “It's not like we haven't before.”

Derek grunts and scrunches his nose in distaste. That had been a particularly awkward morning.

“What do you want to do?” Chris asks.

With a frustrated sigh, Derek opens his mouth to respond.

And he's abruptly cut off as the hotel room door slams open. Peter, bright-eyed and snarling, collapses into Derek's arms. The Alpha catches him quickly, taking his weight and keeping him on his feet.

“Peter?” He barely has the name out before the older man is speaking, gasping, wheezing.

“Someone took Stiles.” Peter grasps Derek's shirt with weak hands, panting as he desperately tries to stay upright. “He's gone.”

Derek searches the hallway with a quick glance before ushering Peter back into the room, Chris following behind and closing the door after them. The room smells like sex—unsurprising—but there's another scent that Derek doesn't recognize. It's like static and rain and stone. It smells like the cemetery.

The Alpha sits Peter on the bed, crouching down in front of him and holding him still as he sways. Peter growls and bares pointed teeth, hands trembling as his fingers twist into his nephew's shirt.

“Breathe, Peter,” Derek commands, watching as the older man closes his eyes tightly and jerks his head like he's trying to shake off the remnants of a nightmare. “Who took Stiles?”

Peter draws in a long, steady breath through his nose and releases it in a harsh gust past his lips. “The girl.”

“Rosa?”

“No,” his uncle replies through clenched teeth, eyes flashing a dangerous blue. “From the cemetery. The dead girl...”

“Gabriela?” Derek's eyebrows furrow when Peter nods. He stands, one hand on his uncle's shoulder to keep him steady. “I need to call Ramirez,” he says to Chris. “Keep an eye on him. See if you can get more information.”

Peter huffs at being spoken about like he isn't there, like he's a child. And he doesn't appreciate being foisted onto a hunter while he isn't completely in control of himself yet. Chris may be Derek's mate, as oblivious as the young Alpha is about that fact, but he is also an Argent. A hunter. His family is the reason there are so few Hales left.

Derek leaves the room, cellphone to his ear as he shuts the door behind him. Peter does his best to concentrate on staying upright by himself but quickly finds his strength waning as he begins to fall forward. Chris catches him easily, righting him and keeping a hand on his shoulder where Derek's was before.

“What else can you remember?” the hunter asks gruffly, clearly just as uncomfortable with the situation.

Instead of answering the question, Peter grinds his teeth and glares at the man, refusing to break eye contact. “This must be a fulfilling moment for you,” he slurs, speaking slowly and injecting no small amount of irritation into the words, “having the _Hale Left Hand _at your mercy.”__

__Chris offers an unimpressed look. “I find no fulfillment preying on those who can't defend themselves.” He crouches by Peter, hand squeezing in a way that might be painful if Peter were human. “Taking you head-on while you and I are both at our best—I'm sure you'd agree that's much more of a thrill.”_ _

__Peter has the decency to smirk before the gesture falls flat and color drains from his face. “Something woke me—a smell or a feeling, I don't know which. But it had me on edge instantly. I was halfway to shifting when something slammed into me, pinned me to the bed—like a force.”_ _

__“Like magic,” Chris says, and Peter nods._ _

__“She disappeared with Stiles. I couldn't...I couldn't move.”_ _

__The hunter clenches his jaw and nods. “We'll find him.”_ _

__Derek enters the room again, sighing as he approaches them. “I can't get ahold of Ramirez. Her betas lost touch with her and Rosa last night after our meeting.” He looks at Peter and purses his lips. “Can you sense Stiles's magic?”_ _

__Peter winces, shaking his head. He shuts his eyes tightly as the room spins. “No. I've been trying. Our mate bond is still intact, but I can't pinpoint his location.”_ _

__The Alpha purses his lips as he thinks. “I'll check the cemetery. Gabriela's grave might give us a clue.”_ _

__“I'm coming with you.” Peter stands— _tries_ to stand. He manages to move an inch up off of the bed before he lurches forward. Derek and Chris both grab him and push him back onto the bed._ _

__“No, you're not,” Derek says, his words quiet and final. “You need to stay here with Chris until whatever this is wears off.” Peter bares his teeth, intent on arguing, but the Alpha cuts him off. “It'll be faster if I go alone. I can't drag you around and look for Stiles.”_ _

__Peter glares, but eventually clenches his fists and grits out, “Fine.”_ _

__Derek grasps the man's arm, squeezing as he says, “I'll call if I find anything.” He leaves, and the room falls deafeningly quiet. Peter tries slowing his breathing, concentrating on flexing his fingers, tightening the muscles in his arms, pushing his shoulders back until the stretch of it is almost painful. Pain is good. Pain means he feels something other than absolute helplessness._ _

__Chris suddenly stands from his crouched position, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Do you want some clothes?”_ _

__Peter stares at the man for a long moment before huffing in amusement._ _

__0 o 0 o 0_ _

__Stiles drags in a breath, and it feels tight in his chest. The air is starting to get thin, and the cold has sucked all the strength from his limbs. His hands are throbbing from pounding against the lid, and he can feel the tackiness of blood on split knuckles._ _

__“Fuck,” he pants, blinking frustrated tears from his eyes. They burn on his cheeks as he presses the heels of his palms into his eyelids. “Think. Think, think, think. I can figure this out.”_ _

__Even if his magic has been bound, there has to be a way to get to it. It's there, he can feel it coiled tightly in his core. But when he reaches for it, begs it to jump to his fingertips, it's like it stretches away from him, just out of reach._ _

__“Fuck!” he yells, knowing it's a waste of oxygen. He can't afford a panic attack right now, of all times, when his air supply is so limited. But he can feel it building, bubbling just behind his ribcage. Every erratic heartbeat is dread chipping away at his resolve._ _

__How has he allowed himself to become so dependent on his magic? It's just been there, a part of him that he can draw on at any time, will into existence merely by thinking it. He hasn't had to rely on only himself for so long..._ _

___Believe_ , he tells himself, shivering as his fear quells some. Even if he doesn't have his magic now, he still has to believe. And if there is one thing, one _person_ , in this world that he has faith in more than anything, it's—_ _

___Peter. I believe in Peter._ _ _

__0 o 0 o 0_ _

__Derek frowns at the small placard on Gabriela's grave. The grass surrounding the area is still brown, dry beneath his boots. But the feeling of magic is gone. The walking corpses have disappeared, their graves seemingly untouched._ _

__Stiles's doing. He'd insisted on returning them to their rightful places. He could have left the aftermath for someone else to deal with. The Council has several resources at their disposal. They could easily return everything to normal._ _

__-_ _

___Stiles exits the circle of dead grass, the dagger that had been plunged into Gabby's heart moments before slipping from his trembling hand and disappearing before it hits the ground. His eyes are wide, unseeing, and there's sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill of the evening._ _ _

___Peter steps forward, cradling Stiles's face in gentle hands. “Sweetheart, are you all right?”_ _ _

___Stiles swallows, eyelids fluttering as he blinks his gaze back into focus. “I think...I think I'm going to throw up.” He barely has the words out before he's turning and doubling over, emptying his stomach onto the grass. Peter holds him steady as he wavers, the young man spitting and wiping his mouth on his sleeve when he's able to stop heaving._ _ _

___They forget sometimes that Stiles is still young. Granted, twenty-five isn't nearly as young as sixteen, which was when all this bullshit started. But even back then, he seemed older, like he could take on the world by himself._ _ _

___Still—all the magic and power and maturity in the universe can't prepare a person for stabbing a girl in the heart, even if she was already dead to begin with._ _ _

___Derek glances around, watching the corpses fall one-by-one where they stand. The noises the bodies make as they hit the ground make him cringe. “I'll contact the Council. They'll send someone to deal with the rest of this.”_ _ _

___Stiles sniffs and wipes at his eyes, taking deep, shuddering breaths. “I can take care of it,” he says firmly, swallowing the acidic burn at the back of his throat with a wince._ _ _

___“You've done enough,” Peter argues, reaching for the young man, but Stiles shakes his head and steps away._ _ _

___“They don't deserve to be left like this,” he whispers, stumbling over his own feet as he turns to look around at the bodies scattered across the cemetery grounds. “I can't leave them like this.” He wavers as he turns back to Peter, eyes bright as he silently begs permission._ _ _

___Peter sighs, nodding slightly before Stiles drops to his knees, closing his eyes and breathing for several moments. He leans forward until his hands are flat against the ground, fingers digging into the grass, down into the dirt. The silence in unnerving—no bugs chirping or birds twittering or wind rustling. No sound at all until Stiles releases a slow gust of air from his lungs, like he's breathing magic into the very earth._ _ _

___And then there is movement and noise, and the ground begins to shift beneath their feet. Root-like tendrils slither up from the dirt around each body, tangling themselves in limbs, hair, clothing, and tugging until the ground absorbs them without a trace. The mangled earth around each grave is renewed, fresh grass stretching to cover any indication of posthumous escape._ _ _

___Stiles breathes again, gingerly pulling his fingers from the dirt and pushing himself up to stand. He sways but manages to stay on his feet, holding his own as they quietly make their way back to the entrance._ _ _

__-_ _

__Stiles has gained favor with the Council over the years, which has only sparked more rumors, unfortunately. He's been called _pet_ and _lapdog_ , able to skirt the consequences of his actions because he does the Council's dirty work. But the simple truth is that, as dangerous as the young man has the potential to be, Stiles wants nothing to do with the Council. He plays by their rules to protect his pack and his mate._ _

__And fuck anyone who thinks differently._ _

__Derek sighs and looks back to the grave once more. The only thing he's noticed since arriving is the smell—the same one from Stiles and Peter's room. Like an approaching storm. But there is no trace of Stiles here._ _

__He turns towards the cemetery entrance, fishing his phone from his pocket. His finger hovers over Chris's contact name, but the phone begins to ring shrilly with a number he recognizes as belonging to one of the Ramirez pack members. Answering with a curt, “Hale,” he listens as he exits the cemetery gates, pausing at his car as the person on the end of the line finishes speaking._ _

__“I'm very sorry for your loss. Thank you for letting me know.” He ends the call quickly, letting the information settle in his mind before grinding his teeth and wrenching the Camaro's driver-side door open. “Shit.”_ _

__0 o 0 o 0_ _

__Peter exits the hotel bathroom, toweling his hair dry as steam follows him in a swirling cloud. He's shirtless but has enough courtesy for his current company to be wearing a pair of tight-fitted blue jeans, though they're unbuttoned. Chris glances up from Stiles's laptop, the bestiary the young man has been writing open on the screen._ _

__“He's a good writer,” the hunter compliments. “A little more profane than his predecessors.” Peter huffs in amusement. “But very detailed. Did he draw these himself?” He points to the screen, where several sketches that Stiles had scanned into his computer are on display._ _

__“Yes,” Peter states proudly. “He tried taking pictures with his phone at first, but they either came out blurry or the creatures didn't translate well to photographs.” He admires the drawings for a moment. Stiles doesn't even need magic to make them look as good as they do—a hidden talent that delights Peter to no end. “He's also begun writing a grimoire, though I suspect he has it stowed away in some hidden file. He doesn't want anyone to see it.”_ _

__Chris nods, giving the other man a pointed look. “Grimoires can be dangerous in the wrong hands.”_ _

__Peter smirks, continuing to dry his hair as he sits on the end of the bed. He owns three grimoires, each of them hidden in secure locations in-and-outside of Beacon Hills. He can't wait to add Stiles's to his collection._ _

__Chris's phone rings, and the hunter sets the laptop aside, answering on speaker as Derek's number flashes across the screen. “Did you find anything?”_ _

__“Not at the cemetery,” Derek says, voice crackling over the sound of the Camaro's engine. “Everything is exactly the way we left it.” He pauses and sighs. “I got a call from a member of Ramirez's pack. They found Rosa's body in the woods.”_ _

__Peter and Chris share a grim look._ _

__“How did she die?” Peter asks._ _

__“Her throat was cut open with a knife,” Derek explains. “There were objects and runes near the body. They think some sort of ritual was performed.”_ _

__“Like a ritual to raise the dead?” Chris asks._ _

__“I'm not sure,” Derek admits. “I'm meeting with a few pack members at Ramirez's home to see if I can help with finding her.”_ _

__“We can meet you there,” the hunter offers tentatively, giving Peter an assessing look to gauge whether the man is well enough to leave the hotel._ _

__“How are you feeling, Peter?” Derek asks._ _

__“I'm fine,” Peter says firmly. “Text Chris the address. We'll be leaving shortly.”_ _

__“All right. I'll see you soon.”_ _

__Chris ends the call and watches Peter as he throws his towel down, standing and finding a V-neck shirt in his duffel bag and hastily pulling it on before buttoning and zipping his jeans. “You're sure you're up for this?”_ _

__Peter shoves his feet into his boots and ties them with more aggression than necessary. “I will break both of your legs and leave you behind if you ask me that again, Christopher. Let's go.” He stands and heads towards the door without offering the hunter another glance._ _

__Chris sighs and stands, following the other man as his phone pings with a text message containing the address they need to find._ _

__0 o 0 o 0_ _

__Stiles tries not to think about it—forces himself to think of far more pleasant things, like the numbing cold tingling in his fingertips and toes or the ache settling into restless limbs that he can barely move or the terrifying notion of running out of air before he can find a way out of this. Because the moment he stops thinking these thoughts, the abject horror sets in that maybe the only reason he was able to be taken at all...is because Peter is dead._ _

__Logically, he knows that can't be true. Even without his magic, he can still feel the bond between them. But something in the darkness eats away at his logic, whispers in his ears that no one is coming for him. No one is going to save poor, defenseless Stiles, who's useless without his magic._ _

__The young spark swallows hard, begging the dread he feels to stay in the pit of his stomach. But it doesn't. It bubbles up his chest and tears from his throat in an awful, desperate sound._ _

__Stiles covers his face and screams into the dark._ _

__0 o 0 o 0_ _

__The house is vaguely reminiscent of the Hale home before the fire. It's large and looming, even in the morning light. Peter remembers coming here years ago, remembers the same unease that he feels in his stomach now._ _

__“Something isn't right,” he murmurs as Chris parks the SUV. They step out of the vehicle, and the hunter eyes Derek's empty Camaro._ _

__He takes a breath, gaze scanning the area around the house, and before he can suggest that one of them scout the surrounding woods, a deafening roar rattles the windows and causes flocks of birds to scatter into the sky._ _

__Derek crashes through the front door, stumbling down the steps of the porch and landing on his back with a grunt. There's blood on the front of his shirt, and he wheezes as he tries to get back up. Chris runs to the young man, assessing the damage before helping him up while Peter stands between them and the house, claws out and teeth bared._ _

__“Who—” Chris starts, interrupted as another loud howl echoes from the house and a figure steps out onto the porch._ _

__“Ramirez,” Peter growls, crouching and digging his heels into the gravel path leading to the house._ _

__“That's not—” Derek gurgles as blood bubbles at the back of his throat. Before he can finish, Ramirez opens her mouth impossibly wide and screams. The voice behind it is many—a choir of angry souls. Her features are twisted, partly wolf but mostly grotesque disfigurement. Her eyes are white, weeping blood at the corners, and her sharp teeth are long and crooked._ _

__“Peter,” Derek gasps, and the older man falters, turning back to his nephew, his Alpha, and awaiting orders. “Don't...Don't kill her unless you have to.”_ _

__Peter's jaw tightens in disapproval, but he hisses through his teeth and looks back to the woman marching towards him. “Yes, Alpha,” he rumbles, squaring his shoulders and striding forward to meet the monster._ _

__0 o 0 o 0_ _

__Stiles's drags stale air into his lungs as he feels power surge back into his limbs. Magic crackles at his fingertips, and he doesn't hesitate to press his broken, bleeding hands flat against the lid of the box. The hum of it makes his arms shake, and relief tightens his throat and stings the backs of his eyes._ _

__With a weak, pained shout, he pushes on the lid, emptying his power through his palms. The earth shakes. The noise that erupts from the sudden burst of energy leaves a ringing in his ears._ _

__Then Stiles can see the sky, overcast but bright enough to make him squint after being adjusted to darkness for so long. Cool air washes over his body, leaving goosebumps in its wake, and floods into his lungs. He coughs the staleness from his throat and closes his eyes, content to just...breathe._ _

___Just breathe._ _ _

__A jolt of energy startles him, and he recognizes it as Peter— _mate_. He's alive. And the howl that cuts through the cemetery tells Stiles he'll be here soon. _ _

__It's time to crawl out of his own grave._ _

__0 o 0 o 0_ _

__Stiles's magic thrums in Peter's veins as he runs towards the cemetery. He can feel his mate's heartbeat pulse in his chest, his own heart syncing as he draws closer. The smell of ozone stings his nose as the gates come into view. He bounds over them easily, following the sound of desperate, ragged breaths until he sees the open grave—no, it's not a grave anymore. It's a massive hole in the earth, surrounded by scorched grass and fading embers._ _

__The magic permeating the air nearly knocks him from his feet, and he stumbles. But he persists. He pushes against the barrier until it relents. And then he falls to his knees and reaches down._ _

__Down._ _

__Down._ _

__Into the darkness._ _

__0 o 0 o 0_ _

__Stiles reaches, digging numb fingers into cold dirt as he strains, pulls, climbs. He stops to rest, pressing his forehead into the dirt and panting. His lungs burn and ache, and his muscles tremble from being stretched after staying cramped for so long. The top of the grave is there— _right there_. _ _

__He releases a frustrated noise, flexing his fingers in the dirt and taking a deep breath before reaching above him. His fingertips graze dead grass, clutching at it as he pulls himself up. The grass breaks, pulls away from the earth, and he feels the pit of his stomach drop as he begins to fall._ _

___Please_ , he begs, gasping into the dark and clutching at air. _Peter...__ _

__And then warm fingers find his wrist, grip tight, and pull._ _

__Stiles clutches at Peter the moment his bare knees press into dead grass, shaking hands grasping at the older man's arms, his clothing, his hair._ _

__“I've got you,” Peter says, warm arms coming around the younger man to still his frantic movements. “It's okay, I've got you.”_ _

__“Peter,” Stiles whispers, his throat tight and sore from crying and yelling. “Peter, Peter, Peter.” He says the name over and over, gasping for air that burns his lungs and makes his teeth ache._ _

__“Stiles, look at me,” Peter says gently, dodging the young man's flailing arms with practiced ease and attempting to center the spark's focus. “Come on, sweetheart, look at me.”_ _

__Stiles's breathing begins to slow, his wild gaze finding Peter's glowing eyes. “Peter?” he asks, shivering as Peter tightens his hold. “It's so cold.” His voice trembles, and his eyelids begin to droop. “'M tired.”_ _

__The older man presses his lips to Stiles's temple, trailing kisses down his face to the shell of his ear. “Go to sleep, my love. I've got you.”_ _

__The young spark falls limp in his arms, and Peter holds his breath, counting the rise and fall of Stiles's chest a dozen times before daring to move. Picking Stiles up, he glances one last time in the grave before turning and carrying his mate from this place._ _

__0 o 0 o 0_ _

__Derek and Chris meet him at the gate of the cemetery, the hunter grabbing a blanket from the trunk of his SUV and helping wrap Stiles in it. “Where was he?”_ _

__“Buried,” Peter says, grinding his teeth at the thought. “In Gabriela's grave.”_ _

__Derek's face goes slack, guilt immediately eating at his insides. “I was just here. I didn't...” He swallows, shaking his head as dizziness makes him sway on his feet. Chris reaches out, keeping him steady. “Did you dig him out?” The Alpha frowns in confusion at Peter's clean hands._ _

__“No, the grave was already open,” Peter explains, clutching Stiles to him tightly. “He was climbing his way out when I got here.”_ _

__“His powers were probably unbound when you took down Ramirez,” Chris says, nodding when Peter gives him a questioning look. “The exorcism worked. Gabriela is gone, and Ramirez is alive.”_ _

__Derek's gaze doesn't waver from Stiles. “Does he need a hospital?”_ _

__Peter listens intently to Stiles's heartbeat. It's steady and strong. His lips aren't blue anymore, his breathing deep and slow. “Just some rest.” He eyes his nephew and the large red stain on his chest warily. “Derek, you need a healing potion.”_ _

__“I didn't find any in Stiles's bag,” Chris says, and Peter frowns._ _

__“Deaton has a stash put away for us. We have to get back home.”_ _

__Derek nods. “I'll be fine. Let's go.”_ _

__Chris helps Derek into the front seat of the SUV, assuring the Alpha that he'll make arrangements with the Ramirez pack to return his Camaro to Beacon Hills, while Peter situates himself and Stiles in the back. He clutches at the young man tightly, silently begging whatever deity will listen to take the young man's nightmares._ _

__0 o 0 o 0_ _

__Stiles wakes with dirt in his mouth. The earthy grit of it sticks to his teeth and his tongue and the back of his throat. He gasps. Chokes. Swallows._ _

__He reaches out frantically into the darkness, expecting the inevitable wooden box, the crushing notion of being trapped. But as his arms stretch out, his aching fists find open space._ _

__“Breathe, my love,” a familiar voice whispers against the shell of his ear, and he gasps, dragging clear, warm air into his lungs._ _

__Light, white and blinding, appears to his left, and he blinks until his eyes stop burning, until the blurry figure leaning over him sharpens._ _

__“Peter,” he says, the name no more than a rasp at the back of his throat. His mouth is dry, and he swallows with a grimace until something cool is pressed to his lips. A glass of water. He drinks quickly, grunting when the glass is taken away before he's had enough._ _

__“Slowly, darling,” Peter says gently, brushing his fingers through the younger man's hair. “You'll make yourself sick.” He helps Stiles drink until the glass is empty, and then the young spark lays back and closes his eyes, breathing harshly into the quiet._ _

__“Where are we?” he asks, voice still rough but stronger than it was._ _

__“Home.” Peter says the word like it's a promise, and Stiles relaxes into the sheets he now recognizes. Damned Egyptian cotton. He's never been so grateful for it. Peter's fingers lightly run along Stiles's cheek, down his face, trail the line of his jaw bone. “Do you remember what happened?”_ _

__Stiles fights the urge to leap from the bed, to move and stretch. His fingers clench into fists, and his eyes snap open again, searching wildly until they find Peter's bright gaze. “Yes,” he says, shivering at the lingering cold he can feel on his skin._ _

__Peter runs warm hands over the goosebumps on Stiles's arms, waiting until the young man's heart rate slows. “Do you want to talk about it?”_ _

__The young spark thinks for several seconds, finding the words to express the experience are completely lost to him. “I don't think I can yet.”_ _

__With a nod, the werewolf continues to run his hands over Stiles's skin, grounding him and reassuring him that— “This is real.” Stiles's breath stutters, and his chin trembles. “I'm real. I promise.”_ _

__Stiles folds into Peter, wrapping his arms around the older man and pressing his face into the space between his neck and his shoulder. He breathes in his mate's warm scent, over and over until he's sure it won't be gone the moment he lets go. “I love you, Peter.”_ _

__Peter's hold on the young man tightens. “I love you, too, Stiles.”_ _

__“I need you to kiss me now.”_ _

__Peter does, keeping the kiss slow and sweet until Stiles sighs and loosens his hold as he begins to drift off._ _

__“Can we leave the light on?” he asks quietly, already asleep before the other man can answer._ _

__“Of course, my love,” Peter whispers, pulling his mate into the safety of his arms._ _

__

__BONUS SCENE:_ _

__Peter moves in Stiles with long, steady strokes, his thrusts slow and careful as he watches the younger man writhe beneath him. He loves these moments with his mate. He loves the smell of Stiles's sweat-slick skin after Peter has rubbed his scent into the plains of his stomach and chest and back. He loves the way the young spark trembles as he rolls his hips to meet Peter with every thrust into his willing body. He loves the noises that Stiles makes for him—only him; the gasps and the moans and the way he calls the older man's name over and over and over..._ _

__“Peter,” Stiles pants, arching his back as the werewolf changes the angle of his hips and hits the small bundle of nerves that makes him see stars. “Fuck, it's so good. You feel so good, Peter.”_ _

__Peter leans over the young man, sucking at the pulse point on his neck until a dark mark appears. “You're amazing, darling. Everything about you is incredible. Stunning. Absolutely beautiful.”_ _

__Stiles laughs and shakes his head as his cheeks heat. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”_ _

__The older man smiles and pants against Stiles's mouth. “I feel like I've been everywhere with you, mapped every inch of your skin,” he says, lifting his head and holding the young man's gaze as they continue to move against one another. He studies the curious honey eyes staring back at him, revels in the way they come alive as he gives a particularly sharp thrust into the young spark. “And yet I find myself wanting more of you each day.”_ _

__“Peter,” Stiles whispers, fingers gripping the hair at the nape of the older man's neck and tugging. His thigh muscles shudder and clench at Peter's sides as waves of pleasure slither up his spine._ _

__“You are perfect in every way,” Peter continues, kissing away the tears that fall from Stiles's eyes. “I love you, my beautiful boy, with every part of my being.”_ _

__“I love you, Peter. I love you so much,” Stiles hiccoughs between tears, pulling Peter to him and pressing their mouths together in a crushing kiss. Only when they need air again do they break apart, sharing breath as they gasp against each other's lips._ _

__“Marry me, Stiles,” Peter whispers, and sound seems to flee from around them._ _

__Stiles's hands flutter to the sides of Peter's face, and he stares back at the older man with surprise and hope and love. With complete and utter joy. “Yes,” he says in a rush of air, mouth dropping open as Peter suddenly pulls the young man up to straddle his lap and continues to thrust up into him. “Yes, Peter.”_ _

__Their mouths clash again as happiness washes over them, and they kiss over and over until they've both found release, trembling and holding one another until the chill of the air around them sets in. Peter lays them down, gently pulling out of the young man and reaching toward the bedside table drawer. He sits back with a small, black box, watching Stiles's eyes brighten as the young man sits up as well, staring at the object for only a moment before meeting Peter's gaze._ _

__“I've had this for a while,” Peter confesses, nervous despite already receiving Stiles's answer to his proposal. “I wanted to ask you so long ago, but everything...” Words fail him, which rarely happens, but Stiles doesn't seem to mind._ _

__The young man nods quickly, smiling wide and sad. “I know,” he says, hands running up and down Peter's arms as he leans in for a quick, gentle kiss. “It's okay. I'm so glad it was now, Peter. This was perfect. You're perfect.”_ _

__Peter sighs with relief, a feeling of contentment washing over him. He opens the box and watches Stiles's smile grow wide._ _

__“It's beautiful,” the young spark whispers, running his fingers over the simple, white-gold band. He holds out his left hand as Peter removes the ring and slides it onto his ring finger, hands cupping Stiles's face and pulling him in for a kiss._ _

__He loves the noise the young man makes for him—only him; a mixture between a whimper and a gasping laugh. He loves the way Stiles arches as he presses him back into the sheets, intent on celebrating with a night of love-making and kissing every inch of skin on the spark's body. He loves the smell of Stiles's happy tears as he stares back at the older man with such love that he has never known but can't wait to endure for the rest of their lives together._ _

__Peter loves this moment with his mate. Every moment before it. And every moment after._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh Oh my gosh Oh my gosh. I love you so much for being here and for reading my silly things! Rest assured, this is not the end of this series!! I probably could have ended things here, but I just have so much more I want to write for these silly boys! 
> 
> I just...*clenches fists*...love them. And you! 
> 
> Be safe and healthy, my friends! You are so, so important! 💖💖💖  
> Have an amazing day! You deserve all the good things!

**Author's Note:**

> I love you!  
> I love you!  
> I love you!
> 
> Second chapter soon, I promise! It's finished, I just have to go through the arduous process of reading it over and over and second-guessing my own writing.. :D


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